


And Nothing More

by fallbeforeifly



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hallucination Lucifer (Supernatural) | Hallucifer, suicide TW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 07:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18586213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallbeforeifly/pseuds/fallbeforeifly
Summary: “I’m not real? Please, Sam. You wanna talk about not real?”The Devil snaps his fingers together, and Sam flinches on instinct, crushing his eyelids together and bracing himself for pain. For chains, needles, fire, knives, for…“Sammy?”





	And Nothing More

**Author's Note:**

> My friend pressured me into publishing this, so blame her

Sam blinks rapidly, almost as quickly as his heart is pounding. Paint peeling off the walls is supposed to be a figurative statement, not this fake, yet terrifyingly real image as strips of Bobby’s kitchen peel away to reveal a warehouse, cold and clammy and devoid of anything. Sam can only stare, heart thundering away in his chest as he takes in the room.

No, no, this can’t be right. It can’t be. He was just at Bobby’s. Bobby and Dean went outside to talk, just stepped out onto the porch. Sam could hear them. He… He heard them. This isn’t real. How could he go from hearing them to a warehouse? He can’t be in a warehouse. This isn’t real.

“Dunno, Sammy.” The Hunter nearly jumps out of his skin, ice flooding his veins as he turns to face the owner of the voice. “Seems real enough, doesn’t it?”

Sam shakes his head, hair falling in front of his eyes like a curtain to block out the concrete around him. “You’re not real,” he mumbles, taking a few steps back. “You’re not real, this isn’t real, you’re not-”

He slams right into Lucifer’s chest, an involuntary gasp leaving his lips as he backpedals away from the smirking archangel. 

“I’m not real? Please, Sam. You wanna talk about not real?”

The Devil snaps his fingers together, and Sam flinches on instinct, crushing his eyelids together and bracing himself for pain. For chains, needles, fire, knives, for…

“Sammy?”

Sam’s eyes fly open to find Dean standing before him, in the warehouse, right where Lucifer had been. The concern on Dean’s face is real, but this… It’s all wrong.

“I know what you’re doing,” Sam pants out. “You’re not real. You’re not him.” He turns, intending to walk away in the other direction, but he nearly slams right into Dean.

“Sam, what do you mean I’m not real?” Dean reaches out for him, and Sam whirls around again, only to be faced with two more Deans, both of them reaching. Sam turns, and there’s another Dean, turns and there’s another, and another, and another, until there are so many Deans boxing him in, trapping him, and Sam’s suddenly horrifically claustrophobic, needs to get out.

But they’re all reaching for him, all worried, all talking, all voices piled on top of each other.

“Sam, what are-”

“- don’t look like you’re-”

“Please, just say-”

“C’mon man, please, don’t-”

“-you have to believe me.”

“Come on, Sam.”

“Sam, come on.”

“Sam?”

“Sam.”

“Sam!”

“Sammy!”

There’s too many voices, too close, too much, and Sam collapses onto his knees, hands pressed over his ears, but Dean- all the Deans- won’t shut up, shouting at him, trying to talk. And then one of them grabs his wrist, and Sam  _ thrashes _ .

“Stop it! Stop it, just stop it! Make it stop!” He fights off the hand on him, but more keep grabbing him, touching him, their shouts louder now that Sam is starting to fight back. But above the din, he can hear a laugh, enough to send chills down his spine and images of glowing red eyes seared into the back of his skull like a brand.

Sam is drowning in bodies, in hands touching him, in voices and begging and shouting.

“Sam, snap out-”

“-not real!”

“Just listen-”

There’s something cold in the palm of his hand.

“Sammy!”

“- gotta come back.”

Cold is bad, but it’s something solid, something not a body, not  _ Dean _ , not this fakeness. Real and heavy and-

“Let me help-”

“You gotta listen-”

“Sam!”

He curls his fingers, and knows instinctively that he’s wrapped his hand around a gun, even with his eyes screwed shut and his knees drawn to his chest.

“Sammy, please!”

“Sammy!”

“Sam! Sam, Sam, Sammy, Sam, SamSamSamSam-”

“You know how to make it stop,” whispers a singsong voice next to his ear. “You can make it stop.”

“Sam!”

“Sam, you don’t-”

“-just listen!”

“Sammy, come on!”

“Sammy, Sam, Sam, Sam, SammySamSamSammySammySamSammySammy-”

His hands don’t shake as the cold of the gun presses into his temple. His fingers find the safety with no problem, the quick ‘click’ a promise of silence. Permanent silence.

“Sam, no!”

The voice is almost as clear as the gunshot.

\-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Sparks climb high enough to join the stars in the heavens. There’s a sort of beauty to a Hunter’s funeral. The quiet night, the warmth of the flames, the absolute stillness that seems to take over everything.

Bobby cut all the wood himself. Built the pyre and lit it. Not that he expected any help from the Winchester by his side. Losing a brother is hard, he’s sure, but like that…

Sam hasn’t said a word aside from a whispered apology after he washed the blood off his hands. Bobby didn’t even know what to say then. He sure as hell doesn’t know now.

Dean would’ve had something to say, he’s sure. The elder brother was never good with words, but always seemed to find something in a moment like this. 

Sam just stares. Watches his brother’s skin bubble with a familiarity that makes Bobby’s blood crawl. His expression has long since gone vacant, though he occasionally flinches. He finally turns to go inside, stiffly turns his back on the pyre, and Bobby grabs his arm.

“Sam… You know it ain’t your fault. Right?” The youngest and only Winchester doesn’t say anything, eyes focused on something too far away. Bobby swallows hard and squeezes Sam’s arm before he lets go. “We’ll get through this, Sam. It’s gonna be alright.”

Hollow words, an empty statement that doesn’t touch home at all with the larger man. Bobby watches until Sam vanishes inside the house, turning back to the billowing flames before him. There’s still plenty more wood off to the side, and Bobby starts to drag it closer to Dean’s pyre.

He expects it, but he still flinches at the sound of a gunshot from inside. 


End file.
